looking man, with a white
hat, a white overcoat, with one leg of his breeches caught over the top
of his boot, his whole dress shabby and not overclean, and his pockets
stuffed full of newspapers, and many have imagined that he "gets himself
up" so, in order to attract attention on the streets. The true Horace
Greeley, however, though careless as to outward appearances, is
immaculately neat in his dress. No one ever saw him with dirty linen or
soiled clothes except in muddy weather, when, in New York, even a Brummel
must be content to be splashed with mud. Mr. Greeley's usual dress is a
black frock coat, a white vest, and a pair of black pantaloons which come
down to the ankle. His black cravat alone betrays his carelessness, and
that only when it slips off the collar, and works its way around to the
side. Mr. Greeley is five feet ten inches in height, and is stout in
proportion. He is partly bald, and his hair is white. He has a light,
pinkish complexion, and his eyes are blue, small, and sunken. His mouth
is well-shaped, and his features are regular. His beard is worn around
the throat and under the chin, and is perfectly white. His hands are
small and soft; but his feet and legs are awkward and clumsy, and this
gives to him a peculiar shuffling motion in walking. He is abstracted in
manner, and when accosted suddenly replies abruptly, and as some think
rudely.

One of his acquaintances thus describes him in his editorial office:

"We walk through the little gate in the counter, turn within the open
doorway on our left, climb a short, narrow flight of stairs, and find
ourselves in a small room, ten by fifteen, furnished with a green carpet,
a bed lounge, an open book-rack, a high desk, a writing-desk, three
arm-chairs, a short-legged table, and a small marble sink.

"Mr. Greeley's back is toward us. He is seated at his desk. His head is
bent over his writing, and his round shoulders are quite prominent. He
is scribbling rapidly. A quire of foolscap, occupying the only clear
space on his desk, is melting rapidly beneath his pen. The desk itself
is a heap of confusion. Here is Mr. Greeley's straw hat; there is his
handkerchief. In front of him is a peck of newspaper clippings, not
neatly rolled up, but loosely sprawled over the desk. At his left a
rickety pair of scissors catches a hurried nap, and at his right a
paste-pot and a half-broken box of wafers appear to have had a
rough-and-tumble fight.